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Contents vii
Semantic Categories and Relational Words 300

Word Retrieval and Categorization 305
Comprehension 308
Syntax and Morphology 314
Morphology 314
Verb Tensing 315
Pronouns 318
Plurals 319
Articles 319
Prepositions 320
Word Order and Sentence Types 320
Summary 323
Children with CLD Backgrounds 323
Use of Microcomputers 325
Conclusion 326
12 Classroom Functional Intervention 327

Background and Rationale: Recent Educational Changes 328
Response to Intervention (RTI) 329
Inclusion 331
Collaborative Teaching 332
Summary 333
Role of the Speech-Language Pathologist 333
Relating to Others 334
Language Intervention and Language Arts 335
Elements of a Classroom Model 335
Identification of Children at Risk 335
Curriculum-Based Intervention 341
Linguistic Awareness Intervention within the Classroom 344
Language Facilitation 350
Instituting a Classroom Model 356
Conclusion 358
13 Literacy Impairments: Language in a Visual Mode 361

Reading 362
Reading Problems 363
Children with CLD Backgrounds 367
Assessment of Reading 368
Intervention for Reading Impairment 372
Writing 384
Writing Problems 385
Assessment of Writing 387
Intervention for Writing Impairment 390
Conclusion 394
viii Contents
Appendices

A Considerations for CLD Children 395
B Language Analysis Methods 403
C Selected English Morphological Prefixes and Suffixes 411
D Indirect Elicitation Techniques 413
E Intervention Activities and Language Targets 415
F Use of Children’s Literature in Preschool Classrooms 419

Glossary 429

References 433

Author Index 469

Subject Index 479
Preface
T
he sixth edition of Language Disorders: A Functional Approach to Assessment and Interven-
tion represents an exhaustive compilation of studies conducted by my professional col-
leagues and of several years of my own clinical work in speech-language pathology with
both presymbolic and symbolic children and adults. In this book, I concentrate on children because
of the special problems they exhibit in learning language. Adults who are acquiring language, or
who have lost language and are attempting to regain it, represent a diverse group that would be dif-
ficult to address also in this text.
I call the model of assessment and intervention presented in this text functional language. This
approach goes by other names, such as environmental or conversational, and includes elements of
several other models. Where I have borrowed someone’s model, ideas, or techniques, full credit is
given to that person. I find assessment and intervention to be an adaptation of a little of this and a
little of that within an overall theoretical framework. Readers should approach this text with this in
mind. Some ideas presented are very practical and easy to implement, whereas others may not apply
to particular intervention settings. Readers should use what they can, keeping in mind the overall
model of using the natural environment and natural conversations as the context for training lan-
guage. I am the first to acknowledge that I do not have a monopoly on assessment and intervention
methods, nor do I pretend to have all of the answers.
Within Language Disorders I have made some content decisions that should be explained. I
group all children with language problems, both delays and disorders, under the general rubric of
language-impaired. This expedient decision was made recognizing that this text would not be ad-
dressing specific disorder populations except in a tangential manner.
Hopefully, you’ll be pleased with the sixth edition. Professors who’ve used the text before will
notice some new additions and changes in emphasis. These are based on professional feedback,
reviewers’ comments, student input, and the changing nature of speech and language services. Here
is a partial list of updates and modifications.
• The text is thoroughly updated with the addition of several hundred new sources. This is
the result of nearly as many hours of reading or perusing journal articles. In all honesty, I
also looked at five other texts on this topic to see how the authors organized and explained
language impairment.
• I’ve added a new chapter on early communication intervention as some reviewers sug-
gested. This is a topic near and dear to my heart, and the model espoused by both the U.S.
government and the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association is a functional one.
• I’ve included a large section on augmentative and alternative communication (AAC). Al-
though strictly speaking, AAC is a mode of communication and not language intervention
per se, many of the issues that must be addressed relate to language, and for some children
learning language and communication without AAC may be almost impossible.
• New developments, such as inclusion and Response to Intervention or RTI have been add-
ed to the classroom intervention chapter in recognition of the effect these are having on
what happens in the public schools.
• Since the last edition, the information on Specific Language Impairment and working
memory has exploded, so readers will find this section greatly expanded over the previous
edition.
ix
x Preface
• The number of children diagnosed with some variant of autism spectrum disorder (ASD)
has continued to explode. I have attempted to expand discussion of this topic and new inci-
dence figures and descriptive criteria.
• Luckily, the number of meta-analyses focusing on the best evidence-based practices has
greatly increased since the last edition, although as a profession, speech-language patholo-
gists (SLPs), especially those concerned with language intervention, still lag behind some
other medical or medical-related professions. Wherever I have been able to find these pro-
fessional articles, I have incorporated their results, even when they don’t conform to what I
might believe. That’s how we learn and stay current, isn’t it?
• The chapters on language analysis have been strengthened and consolidated into one and
the discussion tightened to add more cohesion. In the past, these chapters tended to ramble
on about the possibilities for analysis at the expense of the more important how-to.
• As in previous editions, I have included all the relevant information on children from cul-
turally and linguistic diverse backgrounds. I’m in love with the increasingly diverse nature
of U.S. society and believe it’s essential that we serve those children who need our services to
the best of our ability.
No doubt I’ve forgotten some of the changes. I hope you are pleased with the results.
I hope that you will find this text useful. Those who use the methods found within these pages
tell me that they and their clients find them to be useful, effective, adaptable, and fun. Time will tell
if you agree.
Acknowledgments
No text is written without the aid of other people. First, I thank the reviewers of this edition; I have
tried to heed their sound advice.
No text is undertaken by the author alone, and I have been fortunate to have the support of
some wonderful people. First, I must acknowledge my colleagues at my former employer who each
nurtured me and encouraged me for so many years. These include Linda House, Ph.D., department
chair, and in alphabetic order, Rachel Beck, Irene Belyakov, Linda Deats, Brenda Fredereksen, Bev-
erly Henke-Lofquist, Doug and Cheryl MacKenzie, Dale Metz, Diane Scott, Gail Serventi, and Bob
Whitehead. Wow, what a great bunch of folks!
I also owe a big thanks to the faculty and staff at my new home in the Department of Commu-
nication Sciences and Disorders at The College of St. Rose in Albany, NY, for believing in me and
offering me a spot on their faculty. Their program is exciting and dynamic, and I’m looking forward
to my association with them.
I would also like to thank the reviewers for this edition: Joan S. Klecan-Aker, Texas Christian
University; Edgarita Long, Northeastern State University; and Gregory C. Robinson, University of
Arkansas at Little Rock.
In addition, special thanks and much love to my partner at O and M Education, Moon Byung
Choon, for his patience, support, and perseverance. Finally, my deepest gratitude to Dr. James Mac-
Donald, retired from the Department of Speech Pathology and Audiology, The Ohio State University, for
introducing me to the potential of the environment in communication intervention.
About the Author
Robert E. Owens, Jr. Ph.D. (“Dr. Bob”) is an As-
sociate Professor of Communication Sciences and
Disorders at the College of St. Rose in Albany, NY,
and a New York State Distinguished Teaching Pro-
fessor. He teaches courses in language development
and language disorders and is the author of
• Language Development, An Introduction

(8 editions)
• Language Disorders, A Functional Approach
(6 editions)
• Program for the Acquisition of Language with
the Severely Impaired (PALS)
• Help Your Baby Talk, Introducing the
New Shared Communication Method
• Queer Kids, The Challenge and Promise for
Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Youth
His Language Development text is the most widely used in the world and has been translated
into Spanish, Korean, Arabic, and Mandarin. He has also co-authored Introduction to Communica-
tion Disorders, A Life Span Perspective (4 editions), written a score of book chapters and professional
articles, and authored two as-yet unpublished novels that are sure to win a posthumous Pulitzer prize.
Currently, he is authoring a text on early intervention. In love with the sound of his own voice, Dr.
Bob has presented over 180 professional papers and workshops around the globe. His professional
interests are language disorders in infants, toddlers, and preschoolers, who are also some of his best
friends. And he’s a gran’pa!
xi
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Chapter
A Functional Language
Approach 1
1
2 Chapter 1 A Functional Language Approach
A
t the risk of sounding like I think I’m something special, which I don’t and I’m not, let me
begin with two vignettes. A few years ago, I gave a presentation in Buffalo, New York, on a
topic other than speech-language pathology and was pleased to see a former student sitting
in the rear. Afterward, when I approached her and expressed my surprise at seeing her in attendance,
she told me she was there not because of the topic but because she wanted to tell me how much she
appreciated the functional intervention methodology I had shared with her in class several years
earlier. At the time, according to her, she thought I was describing a standard method of providing
intervention and was not aware until she graduated just how different functional intervention is from
typical intervention as practiced by her peers. She related to me that, years after graduating, she is still
being questioned by colleagues who wondered how she learned to make therapy look so natural and
to engage children so well while genuinely seeming to enjoy herself. I can’t take credit for that. All I
did was provide information. She is a bright, creative speech-language pathologist who was able to
implement what she had learned.
After another workshop in Connecticut, an older speech-language pathologist approached me
to tell me she used many functional methods she had read in this book and found them to be very
effective. Somewhat humbled, I thanked her, but as I moved on, she took my arm firmly and said,
“You don’t understand. I get it. I get it.” As I turned back to her, she explained that functional
intervention is not the same as using someone’s published language intervention program, it’s a
philosophy of intervention that influences everything she does with children and adults with lan-
guage impairment.
Both women get it. In this book, we are going to explore that “it,’’ a functional philosophy of
language intervention. I want you to get “it” too. There are many pieces to this model, but luckily, an
inability to use some portions, such as working with parents, does not preclude using others, such
as teaching through conversation. Nor does use of functional methods negate the need for more
traditional methods with some clients and at some times during intervention. But with a functional
approach firmly in your mind, you never lose sight of the goal. You never lose sight of intervention
based on actual use of the newly trained skill to improve communication. All your clinical decisions
should move your clients in that direction.
I’ve been an SLP and college professor for thirty-five years, but I began my career just as you
are, sitting in classes, taking notes, reading texts, and eager but fearful of my first clinical experience.
This book is my attempt to give you as much information about language impairment as possible in
the shortest space possible. The text is thick and filled with information because this topic is compli-
cated. We’ll discuss groups of children as we move through our discussion, children with intellectual
disability and others with autism spectrum disorder. Even after we have spent all these words in
discussing the topic, we will have only skimmed the surface. You will spend your professional career
continually updating your knowledge. And yet, each new child with a language impairment that you
meet will challenge your knowledge, your skill, and your creativity. It’s what makes the field of lan-
guage impairment so challenging and rewarding.
So let’s proceed together. If you have concerns as we go, if I’ve made a mistake or confused you,
or if I’ve been insensitive about a topic at some point, please let me know. I value your input.
Throughout this book, to the best of my ability, I have used evidence-based practice (EBP) as
the basis for this text. I have attempted to research each topic, weigh the data, and make informed
decisions prior to passing the knowledge on to you. If you are unfamiliar with EBP, I’ll explain it at
the end of the chapter. For now, let’s begin with the basic concepts of language impairment and
functional language intervention.
Language is a vehicle for communication and is primarily used in conversations. As such, lan-
guage is the social tool that we use to accomplish our goals when we communicate. In other words,
language can be viewed as a dynamic process. If we take this view, it changes our approach to language
intervention. We become interested in the how more than in the what. It is that aspect of language
intervention that I wish for us to explore through this book.
Chapter 1 A Functional Language Approach 3
The American Speech-Language-Hearing Association, the professional organization for speech-

language pathologists and audiologists, defines language disorder as follows:
A LANGUAGE DISORDER is impaired comprehension and/or use of spoken, written and/or

other symbol systems. This disorder may involve (1) the form of language (phonology, mor-
phology, syntax), (2) the content of language (semantics), and/or (3) the function of language in
communication (pragmatics) in any combination. (Ad Hoc Committee on Service Delivery in
the Schools, 1993, p. 40)
For our purposes, we shall consider the term language disorder, which l’ll call language impair-
ment, to apply to a heterogeneous group of developmental disorders, acquired disorders, delays, or any
combination of these principally characterized by deficits and/or immaturities in the use of spoken and/
or written language for comprehension and/or production purposes that may involve the form, content,
or function of language in any combination. Language impairment may persist across the lifetime of
the individual and may vary in symptoms, manifestations, effects, and severity over time and as a
consequence of context, content, and learning task. Language differences, found in some individuals
who are English Language Learners (ELLs) and those using different dialects, do not in themselves
constitute language impairments.
In attempting to clarify the definition of language impairment, we have, no doubt, raised more
questions than we have answered. For example, causal factors, such as prematurity, although impor-
tant, are omitted from the definition because of their diverse nature and the lack of clear causal links
in many children with language impairment (LI). In general, causal categories are not directly related
to many language behaviors. Likewise, diagnostic categories, such as traumatic brain injury, are not
included in my definition for many of the same reasons. The definition also states that language dif-
ferences are not disorders, even though the general public and some professionals often confuse the
two. We’ll explore all of these issues in Chapter 2 and the chapters that follow. For now, relax a little
and let’s discuss functional language intervention.
The professional with primary responsibility for habilitation or rehabilitation of LI is the speech-
language pathologist (SLP). The wearer of many hats, the SLP serves as team member, team teacher,
teacher and parent trainer, and language facilitator.
These many roles reflect a growing recognition that viewing the child and his or her commu-
nication as the sole problem is an outmoded concept, and increasingly, language intervention is
becoming family centered or environmentally based, such as in a classroom. Professional concern
is shifting from training targets such as individual morphological endings or vocabulary words to
a more functional, holistic approach focusing on the child’s overall communication effectiveness.
Traditional and Functional Models
A functional language approach to assessment and intervention, as described in this text, targets
language used as a vehicle for communication. It’s a communication-first approach. The focus is
the overall communication of the child with language impairment and of those who communicate
with the child. As stated, the goal is better communication that works in the child’s natural com-
municative contexts.
In a functional language approach, conversation between children and their communication
partners becomes the vehicle for change. By manipulating the linguistic and nonlinguistic contexts
within which a child’s utterances occur, the partner facilitates the use of certain structures and pro-
vides evaluative feedback while maintaining the conversational flow. That last sentence is worth
rereading. From the early data collection stages through the intervention process, the SLP and other
communication partners are concerned with the enhancement of the child’s overall communication.
Functional language approaches have been used in clinical research to increase mean length of
utterance and multiword utterance production; the overall quantity of spontaneous communication;
pragmatic skills; vocabulary growth; language complexity; receptive labeling; and intelligibility and
the use of trained forms in novel utterances in children with intellectual disability, autism spectrum
disorder, specific language impairment, language learning disability, developmental delay, emotional
and behavioral disorders, and multiple handicaps. Even minimally symbolic children who require a
more structured approach benefit from a conversational milieu. In addition, functional interactive
approaches improve generalization even when the immediate results differ little from those of more
direct instructional methods. Finally, a conversational approach yields more positive behaviors from
the child, such as smiling, laughing, and engagement in activities, with significantly more verbal ini-
tiation, than does a strictly imitation approach. In contrast, the child learning through an imitation
approach is more likely to be quiet and passive.
In the past, the traditional approach to teaching language has been a highly structured, behavioral
one emphasizing the teaching of specific language features within a stimulus-response-reinforcement
model. Thus, language is not seen as a process but a product or response elicited by a stimulus or
produced in anticipation of reinforcement.
Stimulus-response-reinforcement models of intervention have often taken the form of questions
by an SLP and answers by a child or directives by an SLP for a child to respond. Typical stimulus
utterances by an SLP might include the following:
Which one sounds better . . . or. . . . ?

Did I say that correctly?
Tell me the whole thing.
Say that three times correctly.
In a more traditional model of intervention, the SLP’s responses are based on the correctness of
production and might include Good, Good talking, Repeat it again three times, Listen to me again, and
so on. Table 1.1 offers a simplified comparison of the traditional and functional models.
Table 1.1 Comparison of Traditional and Functional Intervention Models
Traditional Model Functional Model
Individual or small group Individual, small group, large group, or an entire class
Clinical situation Actual communication situation
Isolated language targets Relationship of linguistic units stressed as target is used
in conversation
Begin with small units of language and build up Target conversation as “fixing” the child’s language as
to conversation needed with minimal prompts
Stress on modeling, imitation, practice, and Conversational techniques stressing successful
drill communication
Use in conversations stressed in final stages of Use is optimized as a vehicle for intervention
intervention
Child’s behavior and language constrained by Increased opportunity to use the new language feature in
adult a wide variety of contexts
Little real conversation and use Premised on real conversation and use
Little involvement of significant others Parents and teachers used as agents of change
Many SLPs prefer a traditional structured approach because they can predict accurately the
response of the child with LI to the training stimuli. In addition, structured behavioral approaches
increase the probability that the child will make the appropriate, desired response. Language lessons
usually are scripted as drills and, therefore, are repetitive and predictable for the SLP.
In a structured behavioral approach the child can become a passive learner as the SLP manipu-
lates stimuli in order to elicit responses and dispense reinforcement. The SLP’s overall style is highly
directive. In other words, the clinical procedure is unidirectional and trainer-oriented. Unfortunately,
used alone, these approaches are inadequate for developing meaningful uses for the newly acquired
language feature.
Although structured behavioral approaches that exhibit intensity, consistency, and organization
have been successful in teaching some language skills, they exhibit a major problem — generalization
of that learning from clinical to more natural contexts. As such, failure of language-training targets
to generalize to other uses is one of the major criticisms of intervention with children with autism
spectrum disorders.
Lack of generalization can be a function of several factors, including the material selected for
training, the learning characteristics of a child, or the design of the training. Stimuli present in the
clinical setting that directly or indirectly affect learning may not be found in other settings. Some of
these stimuli, such as training cues, have intended effects, whereas others, such as an SLP’s presence,
may have quite unintended ones. In addition, clinical cues and consequences used for teaching, such
as reinforcement, may be very different from those encountered in everyday situations, thus remov-
ing the motivation to use the behavior elsewhere.
In contrast, functional approaches give more control to a child and decrease the amount of
structure in intervention activities. Measures of improvement are increased successful communica-
tion, not just the number of correct responses. Procedures used by an SLP and a child’s communi-
cation partners more closely resemble those in the language-learning environment of children. In
addition, the everyday environment of a child with LI is included in the training.
Naturally, the effectiveness of any language-teaching strategy will vary with the characteristics
of the child with LI and the content of training. For example, children with learning disabilities may
benefit more from specific language training than do other children with language impairment.
Likewise, children with more severe LI initially benefit more from a structured imitative approach.
In this chapter, we’ll further define a functional language approach and explore a rationale for it.
This rationale is based on the primacy of pragmatics in language and language intervention and on
the generalization of language intervention to everyday contexts. Generalization is discussed in terms
of the variables that influence it.
Role of Pragmatics in Intervention
As you’ll recall, pragmatics consists of the intentions or communication goals of each speaker and of the
linguistic adjustments made by each speaker for the listener in order to accomplish these goals. Most fea-
tures of language are affected by pragmatic aspects of the conversational context. For example, a speak-
er’s selection of pronouns involves more than syntactic and semantic considerations. The conversational
partners must be aware of the preceding linguistic information and of each other’s point of reference.
In an earlier era, interest by SLPs in psycholinguistics led to a therapeutic emphasis on increasing
syntactic complexity. With a therapeutic shift in interest to semantics or meaning in the early 1970s
came a new recognition of the importance of cognitive or intellectual readiness but little understand-
ing of the importance of the social environment. The influence of sociolinguistics and pragmatics in
the late 1970s and 1980s has led to interest in conversational rules and contextual factors. Everyday
contexts have provided a backdrop for linguistic performance.
Among those working with special populations, the focus has been shifting to the communica-
tion process itself. Previously, for example, children’s behaviors were considered either appropriate
or inappropriate to the stimulus-reinforcement situation. Echolalia and unusual language patterns

considered inappropriate were extinguished or punished. When emphasis shifts to pragmatics and to
the processes that underlie behavior, however, the child’s language, even echolalia, can be considered
on its own terms. For example, does it serve a purpose for the child?
Older approaches have tended to emphasize childrens’ deficits with the goal of fixing what’s
wrong. In contrast, a functional approach stresses what a child needs in order to accomplish his or
her communication goals. It follows that intervention should provide contexts for actively engaging
children in communication. In shifting the focus from the disorder to supporting a child’s communi-
cation, the goal becomes increasing support and opportunities for the child to participate in everyday
communication situations.
Increasingly, SLPs are recognizing that the structure and content of language are heavily influ-
enced by the conversational constraints of the communication context. This view of language neces-
sitates a very different approach to language intervention. In effect, intervention has moved from
an entity approach, which targets discrete isolated bits of language, to a systems or holistic approach,
which targets language within the overall communication process. The major implication is a change
in both the targets and the methods of training. If pragmatics is just one of five equal aspects of lan-
guage, as seen in Figure 1.1, then it offers yet another set of rules to train and the methodology need
not change. The training still can emphasize the what with little change in the how, which can con-
tinue in a structured behavioral paradigm.
In contrast, an approach in which pragmatics is seen as the overall organizing aspect of language,
also seen in Figure 1.1, necessitates a more interactive conversational training approach, one that mir-
rors the environment in which the language will be used. Therapy becomes bidirectional and child
oriented, and conversation is viewed as both the teaching and transfer environment.
Dimensions of Communication Context

Language is purposeful and takes place within a dynamic context that affects form and content and
may, in turn, be affected by them. Context consists of a complex interaction of many factors:
Purpose. Language users begin with a purpose that affects what to say and how to say it. Here’s
pragmatics again.
Formalist Functionalist
Syntax Pragmatics
Syntax
Mor
y
olog
phol
Morphology
Phonology
Phon
ogy
Semantics
Sema cs
ntics mati
Prag
Pragmatics is one of five equal and Pragmatics is the overall

interrelated aspects of language. organizing aspect of language.
Figure 1.1 Relationship of the aspects of language.

Content. Language users communicate about something. This topic affects the form and the
style.
Type of discourse. Certain types of discourse, such as a debate or a speech, use a characteristic
type of structure related to the purpose.
Participant characteristics. Participant characteristics that affect context are background
knowledge, roles, life experiences, moods, willingness to take risks, relative age, status,
familiarity, and relationship in time and space. Each participant also belongs to a speech
community, which is that group with whom he or she shares certain rules of language.
Setting and Activity. Setting and the activity includes the circumstances in which language users
find themselves, which, in turn, affects language, especially the choice of vocabulary.
Mode of discourse. Speech, sign, and written modes require very different types of interaction
from the participants.
Within a conversation, participants continually must assess these factors and their changing relation-
ships. Now, it should be easy to see why the pragmatic context is essential to effective intervention.
An SLP must be a master of the conversational context. Unfortunately, it is too easy to rely
on overworked verbal cues, such as “Tell me about this picture” or “What do you want?” to elicit
certain language structures. As simple a behavior as waiting can be an effective intervention tool
when appropriate. Similarly, a seemingly nonclinical utterance, such as “Boy, that’s a beautiful red
sweater,” can easily elicit negative constructions when directed at a child’s green socks. If an SLP
knows the dimensions of communication context and understands the dimensions, he or she can
manipulate them more efficiently.
Summary
In the clinical setting, SLPs need to be aware of the effects of context on communication. How well
children with LI regulate their relationships with other people depends on their ability to monitor
aspects of the context. Given the dynamic nature of conversational contexts, it is essential that inter-
vention also address generalization to the child’s everyday communication contexts.
Role of Generalization in Intervention
One of the most difficult aspects of therapeutic intervention in speech-language pathology is gen-
eralization, or carryover, to nontraining situations. Time and again, we SLPs bemoan the fact that
although Johnny performed correctly during intervention, he could not transfer this performance to
the playground, classroom, or home. When language features taught in one setting are not generalized
to other content and contexts, the child’s goal of communicative competence is not realized.
For our purposes, let’s consider generalization to be the ongoing interactive process of clients
and their newly acquired language feature with the communication environment (Figure 1.2). For
example, if we are trying to teach a child the new word doggie, we might repeat the word several times
in the presence of the family dog and then cue the child with “Say doggie.” If the child repeats the
word only in this situation, she has not learned to use the word. If she says the word spontaneously
and in the presence of other dogs, however, then we can reasonably assume that the child has learned
the word and its use. In other words, the trained content has generalized.
The factors that affect generalization lie within the training content, the learner, and the teaching
context but will vary as particular aspects of the teaching situation change. If a response is to occur in
a nontraining situation, such as a classroom, then some aspects of that situation should be present in
the training situation to signal that the response should occur. In other words, an SLP must consider
the effects of the various teaching contexts on generalization to everyday contexts.
Newly learned
Learner behavior or language
feature
Environment
Generalization is the interaction of the individual, the newly trained behavior or

language feature, and the environment. All three must be present for
generalization to occur.
Figure 1.2 Generalization schematic.
Language training may not generalize because it is taught out of context, represents neither a
child’s communicative functions nor linguistic knowledge or experiences, or presents few commu-
nicative opportunities. To some extent, generalization is also a result of the procedures used and of
the variables manipulated in language training. Finally, the very targets chosen for remediation may
contribute to a lack of carryover.
With each client, an SLP needs to ask: Will this procedure (or target) work in the child’s everyday
environment? Is there a need within the everyday communication of the client for the feature that is
being trained, and do the methods used in its teaching reflect that everyday context? In a recent meet-
ing with a student SLP, the answer to these questions was no. As a result, we decided to forgo auxiliary
verb training with a middle-aged adult with intellectual disability in favor of communication features
more likely to be used within the client’s everyday communication environment, such as ordering at a
fast-food restaurant, asking directions, and using the telephone. In other words, we opted for a more
functional approach that targeted useful skills in the everyday environment of the client.
Variables That Affect Generalization

Generalization is an essential part of learning. Even the young child using his or her first word must
learn to generalize its use to novel content. At first the word doggie may be used with other four-
legged animals. From feedback—“No, honey, that’s a kitty”— the child abstracts those cases in which
the word doggie is correct and those in which it is not. The child is learning those contexts that obli-
gate the use of doggie and those that preclude its use. In other words, the child learns which contexts
regulate application of language rules.
Likewise, a young child who can say, “May I have a cookie, please?” has not learned this new
utterance until it is used in the appropriate contexts. A child learns the appropriate contextual cues,
such as the presence of cookies, that govern use of the utterance.
The contexts in which training takes place influence what a child actually learns. In fact, correct-
ness is not inherent in a child’s response itself but is found in the response in context. Saying “May I
have a cookie, please?” when none are available is inappropriate. The relationship of context to learn-
ing is not a simple one, and the stimuli controlling a response may be multiple.
In a similar way generalization is an integral part of the language intervention process. Thoughts
on generalization should not be left until after intervention has occurred. Generalization is not a
single-line entry at the end of the lesson plan, nor is it homework.
To facilitate the acquisition of truly functional language—language that works for the child—it
is essential that SLPs manipulate the variables related to generalization throughout the therapeutic
process. In a functional model, generalization is an essential element at every step. Table 1.2 includes
a list of the major generalization variables.
Generalization variables are of two broad types: content generalization and context generaliza-
tion. Content is the what of training. Content generalization occurs when the child with LI induces a
language rule from examples and from actual use. Thus, the new feature (e.g., plural -s) may be used
with content not previously trained, such as words not used in the therapy situation. Content gener-
alization is affected by the targets chosen for training, such as the use of negatives, and by the specific
choice of training items, such as the words and sentences used to train negation.
Overall, the content selected for training reflects an SLP’s theoretical concept of language and of
strategies for learning and the communication needs of a child. When grammatical units are targeted,
different uses or functions for those units are essential if we are to meet a child’s communication needs.
If content is the what, context is the how of training. Context generalization occurs when the
client uses the new feature, such as the use of auxiliary verbs in questions, within everyday commu-
nication, such as in the classroom, at home, or in play. In each of these contexts there are differences
in persons present and in the location, as well as in the linguistic events that precede and follow the
newly learned behavior. Generalization can be facilitated when the communication contexts of the
training environment and of the natural environment are similar in some way.
Let’s briefly look at each variable. We’ll come back to them later when we begin to design an
intervention approach in Chapter 9.
Training Targets
The very complexity of language makes it impossible for an SLP to teach everything that a child with
LI needs to become a competent communicator. Obviously, some language features must be ignored.
Target selection, therefore, is a conscious process with far-reaching implications.
Training target selection should be based on the actual needs and interests of each child within
his or her communication environments. The focus of instruction should be on increasing the effec-
tiveness of child-initiated communication. Because language is a dynamic process that is influenced
heavily by context, language features selected for training should be functional or useful for the child
in her or his communication environment.
Table 1.2 Variables That Affect Generalization of Language Training
Content generalization Training targets

Training items
Context generalization Method of training
Language facilitators
Training cues
Consequences
Location of training
Although there is a tendency for beginning SLPs to target specific language deficits, such as
plural -s, as an end in themselves, intervention goals should focus on stimulating the language
acquisition process beyond the immediate target (Fey, Long, & Finestack, 2003). We can best serve
children with LI if we enhance each child’s existing resources for learning language more effectively
within the intervention context and beyond.
Not all language features occur with equal frequency. It may be necessary, therefore, to create
more frequent opportunities for a feature to occur. An SLP must create activities and modify the
environment to increase the need for the target.
Generalization is also a function of the scope of the training target and of the child’s characteris-
tics and linguistic experience with the target. In general, language rules with broad scope generalize
more easily than those with more restricted scope.
The scope of rule application can be a function of the way it is taught. Narrow, restricted teach-
ing reduces training targets to easily identifiable and observable units that may not be found in every-
day use environments. Rules interpreted by a child as applying to a limited set of items in a very
specific manner will limit generalization.
The child’s prior knowledge of language also influences generalization. The failure of training
to generalize may reflect training targets that are inappropriate for the knowledge level of a child.
For example, it would be inappropriate to train indirect commands (e.g., can you . . . ?) prior to the
child’s understanding and using yes/no questions and direct commands. A child’s underlying cogni-
tive abilities are important for target selection.
In conclusion, training targets should be selected on the basis of each child’s actual communica-
tion needs and abilities. The targets selected for training should be functional or useful in a client’s
everyday communication environment.
Training Items
The items selected for intervention, such as the specific verbs to be used in training the past tense
or the sentences to be used in training negation, and the linguistic complexity of these intervention
items also can influence generalization. In general, it is best if these items come from the natural
communication environment of the child with LI. Structured observation of this environment can
aid intervention programming. For example, an active child may use the verbs walk, jump, and hop
frequently. It is more likely that use of the past-tense -ed will generalize if these frequently occurring
words are used in the training.
Individualization is important because of the many potentially different use environments.
A child in a classroom may have very different content to discuss than does a child at home.
Targeted linguistic forms, whether word classes or larger linguistic structures, can be trained
across several functions. For example, negatives used with auxiliary verbs can occur in declaratives
(“That doesn’t fit”), imperatives (“Don’t touch that”), interrogatives (“Don’t you want to go?”) and
intentions, such as denying (“I didn’t do it”) or requesting information (“Why didn’t you go?”).
For optimum generalization, then, it is necessary to select training items from a child’s every-
day environment. In addition, these items should be trained across different linguistic forms and/or
functions and across both linguistic and nonlinguistic contexts.
Method of Training
The training of discrete bits of language devoid of the communication context actually may delay
learning and growth. Such fragmentation allows minute analysis units to eclipse the essential lan-
guage qualities of intentionality and synergy. In other words, language use is overlooked. Intervention
that focuses on these specific, discrete, structural entities fosters drills and didactic training. These, in
turn, adversely affect the flow, intentionality, and meaningfulness of language.
If language is viewed holistically, then the training of language involves much more than just
training words and structures. Clients learn strategies for comprehending language directed at them
and for generating novel utterances within several conversational contexts.
Training should occur in actual use within a conversational context. In a stroke of genius, Carol
Prutting (1983) called language intervention into question with the “Bubba” criterion. Bubba is
Yiddish for “grandmother.” If we were to explain our conversational intervention approach to our
Jewish grandmother, she would reply: “Oh, I could have told you that. It just makes sense to use
conversations to train for conversations. Why didn’t you ask me?” In other words, training in the
use of context makes sense.
Our intervention methodology should flow logically from our concept of language. If language
is a social tool and if the goal is to train for generalized use, then it follows that language should be
trained in conditions similar to the ultimate use environment. It is important, therefore, to view con-
text not as a backdrop for but as the ongoing process of intervention.
Conversational methods alone will not guarantee success for every child with LI. A successful
SLP will blend methods together as required by the child.
Discussion of the method of training leads naturally to consideration of the other contextual
variables. For optimum generalization, training should occur within a conversational context with
varying numbers of facilitators, cues, consequences, and locations.
Language Facilitators
Good language facilitators increase a child’s potential for communication success. Parents, teach-
ers, aides, and unit personnel, in addition to the SLP, can act as language facilitators because of their
relationship with and the amount of time each spends with the child. Interactional partners form
communication contexts for each other, and it is essential that the client experience newly learned
language in a number of these contexts. Because language is contextually variable, it will differ within
the context created by a child with each communication partner. Thus, generalization depends on
the number of communication partners we can involve in the intervention process.
Programs that involve a child’s communication partners, especially parents, produce greater
gains for children than do programs that do not. Parents offer a channel for generalizing to the natu-
ral environment of the home. With parent or caregiver training, both parents and teachers can func-
tion on a continuum from paraprofessionals to general language facilitators. The key in working with
families, especially in early intervention with infants and toddlers, is mutual respect and individual-
ization of services based on each family’s priorities and concerns (Sandall, McLean, & Smith, 2001).
Some cultural beliefs may be at variance with the use of parents as language facilitators. For
example, some Mexican American mothers believe that schools have the main responsibility for edu-
cating children and that parents should not be actively involved (Rodriguez & Olswang, 2003). These
same mothers are more likely than Anglo American mothers to attribute LI to factors external to the
child, such as God’s will or a child–school mismatch. Still, these mothers can be enticed into taking
an active role in language intervention if an SLP builds positive rapport and collaboration and is
respectful of culturally held beliefs.
Intervention need not be limited to just families. When daycare staff are trained to respond to
children’s initiations, to engage children, to model simplified language, and to encourage peer inter-
actions, it has a significant effect on the language production of preschool children (Girolametto,
Weitzman, & Greenberg, 2003).
With the involvement of language facilitators, the traditional role of an SLP changes. In essence,
the SLP becomes a programmer of a child’s environment, manipulating the variables to ensure suc-
cessful communication and generalization. To be effective, an SLP needs to recognize that a child’s
communication partners are also clients, as well as agents of change. The SLP acts as a consultant,
helping each child–parent dyad fine-tune its conversational behaviors.
Training Cues
Goals for the child should include both initiating and responding behaviors in the situations in which
each is appropriate. Therefore, an SLP considers training language through a great variety of both
linguistic and nonlinguistic cues. The adult encourages child utterances by subtle manipulation of
the context and responds to the child in a conversational manner. A functional language approach
adapts these techniques as naturally as possible to intervention.
Contingencies or Consequences
The nature of the reinforcement used in training is also a strong determiner of generalization.
Everyday, natural consequences are best. If the child requests a paintbrush, she should be given one,
unless, of course, there is a good reason not to give it. If that is the case, then the child should not have
been required to learn that request.
Weaning the child away from edible or tangible reinforcers in favor of social ones is commend-
able as long as the social reinforcer is found in the natural communication environment. Verbal or
social training consequences such as “Good talking,” encountered only rarely in the course of every-
day conversations, should be discontinued as soon as possible in favor of more natural responses,
such as a simple conversational reply.
Verbal responses that combine feedback about correctness/incorrectness with additional infor-
mation can be both a language-learning opportunity and a communicative turn that maintains the
conversational flow. “Good talking” ends social interaction by commenting on the correctness of the
child’s utterance only and leaving little that the child can say in return.
Not every utterance is reinforced in the natural environment. In the course of everyday conver-
sations, many utterances elicit no positive response. In typical language intervention, however, every
utterance by the child may be reinforced. Behaviors continuously reinforced are easy to extinguish.
Intermittently reinforced responses are much more resistant and more closely resemble patterns
found in the real world.
Location
The location of training involves not only places but also events. For maximum generalization,
language should be trained in various locations, such as the home, clinic, school, or unit, and in
the activities in which it is used, such as play or household chores. In contrast, where children are
removed from familiar contexts, they may not exhibit their most creative language uses.
Language should be trained within the daily activities of the client. Daily routines can pro-
vide a familiar framework within which conversation can occur. The familiar situation provides
a frame that allows for a degree of automatization important in the acquisition of such skills as
language. Often called incidental teaching, this approach attempts to ensure that children learn
and have ample opportunity to use language within naturally occurring activities. Generalization
increases with the similarity of the learning situation to the transfer situation. If the conditions
for training and use are the same, the need for contrived generalization strategies is alleviated. In
addition, embedding intervention within the everyday routines and activities of the home or class-
room focuses on generalization while reducing the stress for families and teachers that accompanies
specialized training procedures.
The ideal training situation is one in which a child with LI is engaged in some meaningful activ-
ity with a conversational partner who models appropriate language forms and functions. In this way,
a child learns language in the conversational context in which it is likely to occur. It is within these
everyday events that language is acquired naturally and to these events that the newly trained lan-
guage is to generalize.
Within these daily events are naturally occurring communication sequences. Daily events, such
as phone calls, friendly meetings, dinner preparation, and even dressing, can provide a framework
for language and for language training. The frame provides a guide to help the participants organize
their language and their language learning. Routines and familiar situations provide support. An SLP
can plan conversational roles and language training through the use of such daily events.
Summary
A basic goal of intervention should be to help a child achieve greater flexibility in the learning and use
of language in written and oral modalities of comprehension and production. Such language inter-
vention can be a dynamic process of exchange that occurs during natural events in different environ-
ments and with different conversational partners. Reinforcement can be the intrinsic conversational
success of a child. The variables relative to content and context can, if manipulated carefully, facilitate
generalization of newly learned language features and make intervention seem more natural.
Unfortunately, in practice, generalization is too often the final step in planning client training.
Instead, generalization should be considered the first, pervasive, and most basic step in intervention.
Evidence-Based Practice
As clinicians, we should be concerned with providing the best, most well-grounded intervention
for our clients that is humanly possible. In other words, we should do what works or is effective.
Discerning efficacy and providing the most efficacious intervention is a portion of something called
evidence-based practice (EBP). In EBP, decision making is informed by a combination of scientific
evidence, clinical experience, and client needs. Research is combined with reason when making deci-
sions about treatment approaches.
Evidence-based practice is based on two assumptions (Bernstein Ratner, 2006):
• Clinical skills grow from the current available data, not simply from experience.
• The expert SLP continually seeks new therapeutic information to improve efficacy.
In the field of speech-language pathology, interest in EBP is relatively new, and there are few con-
crete guidelines on providing services. Although the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association
(ASHA) has established the National Center for Evidence-Based Practice in Communication
Disorders, it will take years to establish comprehensive assessment and intervention guidelines. In other
words, for now, EBP is still a work in progress. That does not relieve SLPs of the responsibility to pro-
vide the best, most efficacious assessment and intervention possible. Until such time as guidelines do
exist, SLPs need to base decisions on the best available evidence.
Not all clinical evidence is created equal. Professional journals, called peer-reviewed journals, in
which each submitted manuscript is critiqued by other experts in the field and accepted or rejected on
the basis of the quality of the research, would seem to be the best source of information. Unfortunately,
in the field of speech-language pathology, only a small percentage of the articles concern intervention
efficacy. Once research has been located, an SLP is left to decide how much information is enough,
how to resolve seemingly conflicting results, and how to adapt the information to individual clients.
It is also important for SLPs to recognize that efficacy is never an all-or-nothing proposition
(Law, 2004; Rescorla, 2005). We cannot, for example, promise a “cure.” As an old-timer, I’ve had one
knee and one shoulder rebuilt, and although these joints now function better than they did prior to
surgery and physical therapy, they are not the joints I had when I was 20. I have regained a portion of
my former strength and agility, but it is not perfect. Neither is our intervention in speech-language
pathology, especially given the variables that can affect intervention outcomes. This fact makes care-
ful understanding and application of recommended intervention techniques critical.
The decision-making process in EBP is systematic and includes the following several steps
(Gillam & Gillam, 2006; Perzsolt et al., 2003):
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Irishmen who appeared out of nowhere, engaging, full of life and high
spirits.
So at eighteen she had found herself alone in the world save for one
bejetted aunt, with no friends save those she had picked up as a child on
beaches and promenades, whose names she could no longer even
remember. And the only fixed world she knew was the world of the aunt
who talked incessantly of the plush, camphor-smelling splendor of a New
York which no longer existed.
Olivia saw it all clearly now. She saw why it was that when Anson
Pentland came one night to call upon her aunt she had thought him an
elegant and fascinating man whose presence at dinner had the power of
transforming the solid walnut and mahogany dining-room into a brilliant
place. He was what girls called “an older man,” and he had flattered her by
his politeness and attentions. He had even taken her chaperoned by the aunt,
to see a performance of “The City,” little knowing that the indecorousness
to be unfolded there would force them to leave before the play was over.
They had gone on a Thursday evening (she could even remember the very
day) and she still smiled at the memory of their belief that a girl who had
spent all her life in the corridors of European hotels should not know what
the play was about.
And then it had all ended by her being asked to Pentlands for a visit ... to
Pentlands, where she had come upon a world such as she had never known
before, a world green and peaceful and secure, where every one was
elaborately kind to her for reasons that she never learned until long
afterward. They never even told her the truth about Anson’s mother, the old
woman who lived in solitude in the north wing. She was, they said, too ill at
the moment to see any one. Pentlands, in that far-off day, had seemed to the
tired, friendless girl like some vast, soft green bed where she could fling
herself down and rest forever, a world where she could make friends and
send down roots that would hold her secure for all time. To a hotel child
Pentlands was a paradise; so when Anson Pentland asked her to marry him,
she accepted him because she did not find him actually repulsive.
And now, after all those years, it was spring again ... spring as when she
had come to Pentlands for the first time, and she was thirty-nine years old
and still young; only everything had changed.
Bit by bit, in the years that followed the birth of Sybil and then of Jack,
the whole picture of the life at Pentlands and in the brownstone house on
Beacon Street had come to assume a pattern, to take form out of the first
confused and misty impressions, so that, looking back upon it, she was
beginning to understand it all with the chill clarity of disillusion.
She saw herself as a shy young girl to whom they had all been
elaborately kind because it was so necessary for Anson to have a wife and
produce an heir.... Anson, the last male descendant of such a glorious
family. (“The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”) She
saw herself as they must have seen her ... a pretty young girl, disarmed by
their kindness, who was not known in their world but was at least charming
and a lady and quite rich. (She knew now how much the money must have
counted with Aunt Cassie.) And she saw Anson now, across all the expanse
of years, not as a Prince Charming come to rescue her from an ogre aunt,
but as he had really been ... a rather anemic man, past thirty, of an appalling
propriety. (There was a bitter humor in the memories of his timid advances
toward her, of all the distaste with which he approached the details of
marriage ... a humor which she had come to understand fully only as she
grew older and wiser in the ways of the world.) Looking back, she saw him
as a man who had tried again and again to marry young women he had
known all his life and who had failed because somehow he had gained a
mysterious reputation for being a bore ... a young man who, left to himself,
would never have approached any woman, and gone to the grave as virginal
as he had been born.
She saw now that he had never been even in the slightest in love with
her. He had married her only because he got no peace from all the others,
both the living and the dead, who in such a strange fashion seemed also to
live at Pentlands. It was Aunt Cassie and even poor silly Miss Peavey and
powerful old John Pentland and the cousins and all those dead hanging in
neat rows in the hall who had married her. Anson had only been an
instrument; and even in the most bitter moments she felt strangely sorry for
him, because he, too, had had all his life ruined.
And so, slowly during all those long years, the pretty, shy, unknown
Olivia McConnel, whose father was a Democratic politician out of Chicago,
had turned into this puzzled, sometimes unhappy woman, the outsider, who
had come in some mysterious fashion to be the one upon whom all of them
leaned for strength.
She was glad now that she had stood forth boldly at last and faced Anson
and all those who stood behind him there in the drawing-room, both the
living and the dead, peering over his shoulder, urging him on. The
unpleasant argument, though it had wounded her, had cleared the air a little.
It had laid bare for a second the reality which she had been seeking for so
long a time. Anson had been right about Sabine: in the clear bright air of the
New England morning she knew that it was the sense of Sabine’s nearness
which had given her the strength to be unpleasant. Sabine, like herself, had
known the great world, and so she was able to see their world here in
Durham with a clarity that the others never approached. She was strong,
too, in her knowledge that whatever happened she (Olivia) was the one
person whom they could not afford to lose, because they had depended on
her for too long.
But she was hurt. She kept thinking again and again of what Anson had
said.... “In any case, I will not have my daughter marry a shanty Irishman.
There is enough of that in the family.”
She knew that Anson would suffer from shame for what he had said, but
she knew, too, that he would pretend nothing had happened, that he had
never made such a speech, because it was unworthy of a gentleman and a
Pentland. He would pretend, as he always did, that the scene had never
occurred.
When he had made the speech he had meant that she ought to have been
thankful that they allowed her to marry into the Pentland family. There was
a buried something in them all, a conviction that was a part of their very
flesh, which made them believe in such a privilege. And for her who knew
so much more than the world knew, who saw so much more than any of
them of the truth, there was only one answer, to be wrung from her with a
tragic intensity ... “Oh, my God!...”
3
The dining-room was large and square, and having been redecorated in a
period later than the rest of the house, was done in heavy mahogany, with a
vast shiny table in the center which when reduced to its smallest possible
circumference still left those who seated themselves about it formally
remote from one another.
It was a well-used table, for since circumstance had kept John Pentland
from going into the world, he had brought a part of it into his own home
with a hospitality and a warmth that rather upset his sister Cassie. She,
herself, like most of the family, had never cared very profoundly for food,
looking upon it almost as a necessity. A prune to her palate shared
importance as a delicacy with a truffle. In the secrecy of her own house,
moved by her passion for economy, she more often than not assuaged her
own birdlike appetite with scraps from the cupboard, though at such times
the simple but full-blooded Miss Peavey suffered keenly. “A pick-up meal”
was a byword with Aunt Cassie, and so she frowned upon the rich food
furnished by old John Pentland and his daughter-in-law, Olivia.
Nevertheless, she took a great many meals at the mahogany table and
even managed to insinuate within its circle the plump figure of Miss
Peavey, whose silly laugh and servile echoes of his sister’s opinions the old
man detested.
Anson never lunched at home, for he went up to Boston each morning at
nine o’clock, like a man of affairs, with much business to care for. He kept
an office in Water Street and went to it with a passionate regularity, to spend
the day in the petty affairs of club committees and societies for the
improvement of this or that; for he was a man who fortified his own soul by
arranging the lives of others. He was chairman of a committee which
“aired” young girls who had fallen into trouble, and contributed as much as
he was able out of his own rather slender income to the activities of the
Watch and Ward Society. And a large part of the day was spent in
correspondence with genealogists on the subject of “The Pentland Family
and the Massachusetts Bay Colony.” He did not in a whole year earn
enough money to pay the office rent for one month, but he had no patience
with the many cases of poverty and destitution which came to his notice.
The stocks and bonds of the Pentland estate had been kept carefully out of
his reach, by a father who distrusted activities such as Anson’s, and even
now, when he was nearly fifty, Anson had only a small income left by his
grandfather and an allowance, paid him each month by his father, as if he
were still a boy in college.
So when Olivia came down to lunch on the day after the ball she was not
forced to face Anson and his shame over the scene of the night before.
There were only the grandfather and Sybil and Jack—who was well enough
to come down.
The old man sat at the head, in the place which he had never
relinquished as the dictator, the ruler of all the family. Tall and muscular, he
had grown leathery from exposure during the years he had lived in the
country, riding day after day in rains and blizzards, in sunlight and in
storms, as if there were in him some atavistic hunger for the hardy life led
by the first Pentlands to come to Durham. He always rode the vicious and
unruly beautiful red mare ... a grim old man who was a match for her
famous bad temper. He was rather like his sister Cassie in appearance—one
of the black Pentlands who had appeared mysteriously in the line nearly a
hundred years earlier, and he had burning black eyes that looked out from
shaggy brows ... a man as different in appearance and vigor from his son as
it was possible to imagine. (For Anson was a typical Pentland—blond, with
round blue eyes and an inclination when in health toward ruddiness.) One
stood in awe of the old man: there was a grimness about the strong, rough-
cut face and contracted lips, and a curious, indefinable air of disapproval
which one was never able to pin down or analyze.
He was silent to-day, in one of the black moods which Olivia knew well
meant that he was troubled. She knew that this time it had nothing to do
with Jack’s illness, for the boy sat there opposite them, looking stronger
than he had looked in months ... blond and pale and thin, with the blue veins
showing at his pathetic wrists and on his thin, handsome temples.
Olivia had lived through bad times over Jack and she had lived through
them always together with John Pentland, so there had grown up between
them—the mother and the grandfather—a sense of understanding which
was quite beyond speech. Together they had spent so many nights by the
side of the boy, keeping him alive almost by the strength of their united
wills, forcing him to live when, gasping for life, he would have slipped
away easily into death. Together they had kept him in life, because they
both loved him and because he was the last son of the family.
Olivia felt sometimes that Sybil, too, played a part in the never-ending
struggle against death. The girl, like her grandfather, never spoke of such
things, but one could read them in the troubled depths of her violet eyes.
That long, weary struggle was one of the tragedies they never spoke of at
Pentlands, leaving it buried in silence. One said, “Jack looks well to-day,”
smiling, and, “Perhaps the doctors are wrong.” Sybil was watching her
brother now, in that quiet, mysterious way she had, watching him cautiously
lest he discover that she was watching; for he discovered troubles easily,
with the kind of clairvoyance which comes to people who have always been
ill.
They barely talked at all during the lunch. Sybil planned to take her
brother in the trap to ride over the farm and down to the white dunes.
“Higgins is going with us,” she said. “He’s going to show us the new
litter of foxes in the black thicket.”
And Jack said, “It’s a funny thing about Higgins. He always discovers
such things before any one else. He knows when it will be a good day for
fishing and just when it is going to rain. He’s never wrong.”
“No ...” said the grandfather suddenly. “It’s a funny thing. He’s never
wrong ... not in all the years I’ve known him.”
It was the only time he said anything during the meal, and Olivia, trying
to fill in the gaps in the conversation, found it difficult, with the boy sitting
opposite her looking so pale and ill. It seemed to her sometimes that he had
never really been born, that he had always remained in some way a part of
herself. When he was out of her sight, she had no peace because there was
always a gnawing terror that she might never see him again. And she knew
that deep inside the frail body there was a spirit, a flame, descended from
the old man and from herself, which burned passionately with a desire for
life, for riding, for swimming, for running across the open meadows ... a
flame that must always be smothered. If only he had been like Anson, his
father, who never knew that hunger for life....
“Olivia, my dear....” The old man was speaking. “Will you have your
coffee with me in the library? There is something I want to discuss with
you.”
She knew it then. She had been right. There was something which
troubled him. He always said the same thing when he was faced by some
problem too heavy for his old shoulders. He always said, “Olivia, my
dear.... Will you come into the library?” He never summoned his own son,
or his sister Cassie ... no one but Olivia. Between them they shared secrets
which the others never dreamed of; and when he died, all the troubles
would be hers ... they would be passed on for her to deal with ... those
troubles which existed in a family which the world would have said was
rich and respected and quite without troubles.
4
As she left the room to follow him she stopped for a moment to say to
Sybil, “Are you happy, my dear? You’re not sorry that you aren’t going
back to school in Saint-Cloud?”
“No, Mama; why shouldn’t I be happy here? I love it, more than
anything in the world.”
The girl thrust her hands into the pockets of her riding-coat.
“You don’t think I was wrong to send you to France to school ... away
from every one here?”
Sybil laughed and looked at her mother in the frank, half-mocking way
she had when she fancied she had uncovered a plot.
“Are you worrying about marrying me off? I’m only eighteen. I’ve lots
of time.”
“I’m worrying because I think you’ll be so hard to please.”
Again she laughed. “That’s true. That’s why I’m going to take my time.”
“And you’re glad to have Thérèse here?”
“Of course. You know I like Thérèse awfully, Mama.”
“Very well ... run along now. I must speak to your grandfather.”
And the girl went out onto the terrace where Jack stood waiting in the
sun for the trap. He always followed the sun, choosing to sit in it even in
midsummer, as if he were never quite warm enough.
She was worried over Sybil. She had begun to think that perhaps Aunt
Cassie was right when she said that Sybil ought to go to a boarding-school
with the girls she had always known, to grow loud and noisy and awkward
and play hockey and exchange silly notes with the boys in the boarding-
school in the next village. Perhaps it was wrong to have sent Sybil away to
a school where she would meet girls from France and England and Russia
and South America ... half the countries of the world; a school where, as
Aunt Cassie had said bitterly, she would be forced to associate with the
“daughters of dancers and opera singers.” She knew now that Sybil hadn’t
liked the ball any more than Thérèse, who had run away from it without a
word of explanation. Only with Thérèse it didn’t matter so much, because
the dark stubborn head was filled with all sorts of wild notions about
science and painting and weird books on psychology. There was a
loneliness about Thérèse and her mother, Sabine Callendar, only with them
it didn’t matter. They had, too, a hardness, a sense of derision and scorn
which protected them. Sybil hadn’t any such protections. Perhaps she was
even wrong in having made of Sybil a lady—a lady in the old sense of the
word—because there seemed to be no place for a lady in the scheme of life
as it had existed at the dance the night before. It was perilous, having a lady
on one’s hands, especially a lady who was certain to take life as
passionately as Sybil.
She wanted the girl to be happy, without quite understanding that it was
because Sybil seemed the girl she had once been herself, a very part of
herself, the part which had never lived at all.
She found her father-in-law seated at his great mahogany desk in the
high narrow room walled with books which was kept sacred to him, at the
desk from which he managed the farm and watched over a fortune, built up
bit by bit shrewdly, thriftily over three hundred years, a fortune which he
had never brought himself to trust in the hands of his son. It was, in its
gloomy, cold way, a pleasant room, smelling of dogs and apples and wood-
smoke, and sometimes of whisky, for it was here that the old man retired
when, in a kind of baffled frenzy, he drank himself to insensibility. It was
here that he would sometimes sit for a day and a night, even sleeping in his
leather chair, refusing to see any one save Higgins, who watched over him,
and Olivia. And so it was Olivia and Higgins who alone knew the spectacle
of this solitary drinking. The world and even the family knew very little of
it—only the little which sometimes leaked out from the gossip of servants
straying at night along the dark lanes and hedges about Durham.
He sat with his coffee and a glass of Courvoisier before him while he
smoked, with an air of being lost in some profound worry, for he did not
look up at once when she entered, but sat staring before him in an odd,
enchanted fashion. It was not until she had taken a cigarette from the silver
box and lighted it that he looked up at the sound of the striking match and,
focusing the burning black eyes, said to her, “Jack seems very well to-day.”
“Yes, better than he has been in a long time.”
“Perhaps, after all, the doctors are wrong.”
Olivia sighed and said quietly, “If we had believed the doctors we should
have lost him long ago.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
She poured her coffee and he murmured, “It’s about Horace Pentland I
wanted to speak. He’s dead. I got the news this morning. He died in
Mentone and now it’s a question whether we shall bring him home here to
be buried in Durham with the rest of the family.”
Olivia was silent for a moment and then, looking up, said, “What do you
think? How long has it been that he has lived in Mentone?”
“It’s nearly thirty years now that I’ve been sending him money to stay
there. He’s only a cousin. Still, we had the same grandfather and he’d be the
first of the family in three hundred years who isn’t buried here.”
“There was Savina Pentland....”
“Yes.... But she’s buried out there, and she would have been buried here
if it had been possible.”
And he made a gesture in the direction of the sea, beyond the marshes
where the beautiful Savina Pentland, almost a legend now, lay, somewhere
deep down in the soft white sand at the bottom of the ocean.
“Would he want to be buried here?” asked Olivia.
“He wrote and asked me ... a month or two before he died. It seemed to
be on his mind. He put it in a strange way. He wrote that he wanted to come
home.”
Again Olivia was thoughtful for a time. “Strange ...” she murmured
presently, “when people were so cruel to him.”
The lips of the old man stiffened a little.
“It was his own fault....”
“Still ... thirty years is a long time.”
He knocked the ash from his cigar and looked at her sharply. “You mean
that everything may have been forgotten by now?”
Olivia made a little gesture with her white, ringless hands. “Why not?”
“Because people don’t forget things like that ... not in our world, at any
rate.”
Quietly, far back in her mind, Olivia kept trying to imagine this Horace
Pentland whom she had never seen, this shadowy old man, dead now, who
had been exiled for thirty years.
“You have no reason for not wanting him here among all the others?”
“No ... Horace is dead now.... It can’t matter much whether what’s left of
him is buried here or in France.”
“Except, of course, that they may have been kinder to him over there....
They’re not so harsh.”
A silence fell over them, as if in some way the spirit of Horace Pentland,
the sinner whose name was never spoken in the family save between Olivia
and the old man, had returned and stood between them, waiting to hear
what was to be done with all that remained of him on this earth. It was one
of those silences which, descending upon the old house, sometimes filled
Olivia with a vague uneasiness. They had a way of descending upon the
household in the long evenings when all the family sat reading in the old
drawing-room—as if there were figures unseen who stood watching.
“If he wanted to be buried here,” said Olivia, “I can see no reason why
he should not be.”
“Cassie will object to raking up an old scandal that has been forgotten.”
“Surely that can’t matter now ... when the poor old man is dead. We can
be kind to him now ... surely we can be kind to him now.”
John Pentland sighed abruptly, a curious, heart-breaking sigh that
seemed to have escaped even his power of steely control; and presently he
said, “I think you are right, Olivia.... I will do as you say ... only we’ll keep
it a secret between us until the time comes when it’s necessary to speak.
And then ... then we’ll have a quiet funeral.”
She would have left him then save that she knew from his manner that
there were other things he wanted to say. He had a way of letting you know
his will without speaking. Somehow, in his presence you felt that it was
impossible to leave until he had dismissed you. He still treated his own son,
who was nearly fifty, as if he were a little boy.
Olivia waited, busying herself by rearranging the late lilacs which stood
in a tall silver vase on the polished mahogany desk.
“They smell good,” he said abruptly. “They’re the last, aren’t they?”
“The last until next spring.”
“Next spring ...” he repeated with an air of speaking to himself. “Next
spring....” And then abruptly, “The other thing was about Sabine. The nurse
tells me she has discovered that Sabine is here.” He made the family gesture
toward the old north wing. “She has asked to see Sabine.”
“Who told her that Sabine had returned? How could she have discovered
it?”
“The nurse doesn’t know. She must have heard some one speaking the
name under her window. The nurse says that people in her condition have
curious ways of discovering such things ... like a sixth sense.”
“Do you want me to ask Sabine? She’d come if I asked her.”
“It would be unpleasant. Besides, I think it might do harm in some way.”
Olivia was silent for a moment. “How? She probably wouldn’t
remember Sabine. When she saw her last, Sabine was a young girl.”
“She’s gotten the idea now that we’re all against her, that we’re
persecuting her in some way.” He coughed and blew a cloud of smoke out
of his thin-drawn lips. “It’s difficult to explain what I mean.... I mean that
Sabine might encourage that feeling ... quite without meaning to, that
Sabine might give her the impression that she was an ally. There’s
something disturbing about Sabine.”
“Anson thinks so, too,” said Olivia softly. “He’s been talking to me
about it.”
“She ought never to have come back here. It’s difficult ... what I am
trying to say. Only I feel that she’s up to some mischief. I think she hates us
all.”
“Not all of us....”
“Not perhaps you. You never belonged here. It’s only those of us who
have always been here.”
“But she’s fond of you....”
“Her father and I were good friends. He was very like her ... disagreeable
and given to speaking unpleasant truths.... He wasn’t a popular man.
Perhaps that’s why she’s friendly toward me ... on account of him.”
“No, it’s more than that....”
Slowly Olivia felt herself slipping back into that state of confused
enchantment which had overwhelmed her more and more often of late. It
seemed that life grew more and more tenuous and complicated, more
blurred and indistinct, until at times it became simply a morass of minute
problems in which she found herself mired and unable to act. No one spoke
directly any more. It was like living in a world of shadows. And this old
man, her father-in-law, was the greatest puzzle of all, because it was
impossible ever to know how much he understood of what went on about
him, how much he chose to ignore in the belief that by denying its existence
it would cease to exist.
Sitting there, puzzled, she began to pull a leaf from the cluster of lilacs
into tiny bits.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think Sabine is unhappy....”
“No ... not that.... She’s beyond happiness or unhappiness. There’s
something hard in her and unrelenting ... as hard as a cut diamond. She’s a
clever woman and a queer one. She’s one of those strange creatures that are
thrown off now and then by people like us. There’s nothing else quite like
them in the world. They go to strange extremes. Horace was the same ... in
a different, less creditable fashion.”
Olivia looked at him suddenly, astonished by the sudden flash of
penetration in the old man, one of those sudden, quick gleams which led her
to believe that far down, in the depths of his soul, he was far more
profound, far more intelligent, unruly and defiant of tradition than he ever
allowed the world to suppose. It was always the old question. How much
did he know? How much did he not know ... far back, behind the lined,
severe, leathery old face? Or was it a sort of clairvoyance, not of eternal
illness, like Jack’s, but of old age?
“I shall ask Sabine,” she began.
“It’s not necessary at the moment. She appears to have forgotten the
matter temporarily. But she’ll remember it again and then I think it will be
best to humor her, whatever comes. She may not think of it again for
months ... until Sabine has gone.... I only wanted to ask you ... to consult
you, Olivia. I thought you could arrange it.”
She rose and, turning to go, she heard him saying, “She might like some
lilacs in her room.” He hesitated and in a flat, dead voice, added, “She used
to be very fond of flowers.”
Olivia, avoiding the dark eyes, thought, “She used to be very fond of
flowers.... That means forty years ago ... forty long years. Oh, my God!”
But after a second she said simply, “She has taken a dislike to flowers. She
fancies they take up the air and stifle her. The sight of them is very bad for
her.”
“I should have known you’d already thought of it.”
For an instant the old man stood facing her with a fixed and searching
expression which made her feel shy and led her to turn away from him a
little; and then all at once, with an air strangely timid and frightened in a
man so grim in appearance, he took her hand and kissing her on the
forehead murmured, “You’re a good girl, Olivia. They’re right in what they
say of you. You’re a good girl. I don’t know how I should have managed
without you all these years.”
Smiling, she looked at him, and then, touching his hand affectionately,
she went out without speaking again, thinking, as she had thought a
thousand times, what a terrible thing it must be to have been born so
inarticulate and so terrified of feeling as John Pentland. It must be, she
thought, like living forever imprisoned in a shell of steel from which one
might look out and see friends but never touch or know them.
From the doorway she heard a voice behind her, saying almost joyfully:
“The doctors must have been wrong about Jack. You and I together, Olivia,
have defeated them.”
She said, “Yes,” and smiled at him, but when she had turned away again
there was in her mind a strange, almost gruesome thought.
“If only Jack lives until his grandfather is dead, the old man will die
happy. If only he can be kept alive until then....”
She had a strange way of seeing things in the hard light of reality, and an
unreal, lonely childhood had fostered the trait. She had been born thus, and
now as a woman she found that in a way it was less a curse than a blessing.
In a world which survived only by deceiving itself, she found that seeing
the truth and knowing it made her strong. Here, perhaps, lay the reason why
all of them had come to depend upon her. But there were times, too, when
she wanted passionately to be a poor weak feminine creature, a woman who
might turn to her husband and find in him some one stronger than herself.
She had a curious feeling of envy for Savina Pentland, who was dead before
she was born.... Savina Pentland who had been the beauty of the family,
extravagant, reckless, feminine, who bought strings of pearls and was given
to weeping and fainting.
But she (Olivia) had only Anson to lean upon.
After she had gone away the old man sat for a long time smoking and
drinking his brandy, enveloped by a loneliness scarcely more profound than
it had been a little while before when he sat talking with Olivia. It was his
habit to sit thus sometimes for an hour at a time, unconscious, it seemed, of
all the world about him; Olivia had come in more than once at such
moments and gone away again, unwilling to shatter the enchantment by so
much as a single word.
At last, when the cigar had burned to an end, he crushed out the ember
with a short, fierce gesture and, rising, went out of the tall narrow room and
along the corridor that led to the dark stairway in the old north wing. These
steps he had climbed every day since it had become necessary to keep her
in the country the year round ... every day, at the same hour, step by step his
big heavy-shod boots had trod the same worn stair carpet. It was a journey
begun years ago as a kind of pleasure colored by hope, which for a long
time now, bereft of all hope, had become merely a monotonous dreary duty.
It was like a journey of penance made by some pilgrim on his knees up
endless flights of stairs.
For more than twenty years, as far back as Olivia could remember, he
had been absent from the house for a night but twice, and then only on
occasions of life and death. In all that time he had been twice to New York
and never once to the Europe he had not seen since, as a boy, he had made
the grand tour on a plan laid out by old General Curtis ... a time so remote
now that it must have seemed part of another life. In all those years he had
never once escaped from the world which his family found so perfect and
complete and which to him must have seemed always a little cramped and
inadequate. Fate and blood and circumstance, one might have said, had
worn him down bit by bit until in the end he had come to worship the same
gods they worshiped. Now and then he contrived to escape them for a little
while by drinking himself into insensibility, but always he awakened again
to find that nothing had changed, to discover that his prison was the same.
And so, slowly, hope must have died.
But no one knew, even Olivia, whether he was happy or unhappy; and no
one would ever really know what had happened to him, deep inside, behind
the gray, leathery old face.
The world said, when it thought of him: “There never was such a
devoted husband as John Pentland.”
Slowly and firmly he walked along the narrow hall to the end and there
halted to knock on the white door. He always knocked, for there were times
when the sight of him, entering suddenly, affected her so that she became
hysterical and beyond all control.
In response to the knock, the door was opened gently and professionally
by Miss Egan, an automaton of a nurse—neat, efficient, inhuman and
incredibly starched, whose very smile seemed to come and go by some
mechanical process, like the sounds made by squeezing a mechanical doll.
Only it was impossible to imagine squeezing anything so starched and
jagged as the red-faced Miss Egan. It was a smile which sprang into
existence upon sight of any member of the family, a smile of false humility
which said, “I know very well that you cannot do without me”—the smile
of a woman well enough content to be paid three times the wages of an
ordinary nurse. In three or four more years she would have enough saved to
start a sanatorium of her own.
Fixing her smile, she faced the old man, saying, “She seems quite well
to-day ... very quiet.”
The whole hallway had been flooded at the opening of the door by a
thick and complicated odor arising from innumerable medicines that stood
row upon row in the obscurity of the dark room. The old man stepped
inside, closing the door quickly behind him, for she was affected by too
much light. She could not bear to have a door or a window open near her;
even on this bright day the drawn shades kept the room in darkness.
She had got the idea somehow that there were people outside who
waited to leer at her ... hundreds of them all pressing their faces against the
panes to peep into her bedroom. There were days when she could not be
quieted until the window-shades were covered by thick layers of black
cloth. She would not rise from her bed until nightfall lest the faces outside
might see her standing there in her nightdress.
It was only when darkness had fallen that the nurse was able by means
of trickery and wheedling to air the room, and so it smelled horribly of the
medicines she never took, but kept ranged about her, row upon row, like the
fetishes of witch-doctors. In this they humored her as they had humored her
in shutting out the sunlight, because it was the only way they could keep her
quiet and avoid sending her away to some place where she would have been
shut behind bars. And this John Pentland would not even consider.
When he entered she was lying in the bed, her thin, frail body barely
outlined beneath the bedclothes ... the mere shadow of a woman who must
once have been pretty in a delicate way. But nothing remained now of the
beauty save the fine modeling of the chin and nose and brow. She lay there,
a queer, unreal old woman, with thin white hair, skin like parchment and a
silly, vacant face as unwrinkled as that of a child. As he seated himself
beside her, the empty, round blue eyes opened a little and stared at him
without any sign of recognition. He took one of the thin, blue-veined hands
in his, but it only lay there, lifeless, while he sat, silent and gentle, watching
her.
Once he spoke, calling her wistfully by name, “Agnes”; but there was no
sign of an answer, not so much as a faint flickering of the white, transparent
lids.
And so for an eternity he sat thus in the thick darkness, enveloped by the
sickly odor of medicines, until he was roused by a knock at the door and the
sudden glare of daylight as it opened and Miss Egan, fixing her flashing and
teethy smile, came in and said: “The fifteen minutes is up, Mr. Pentland.”
When the door had closed behind him he went away again, slowly,
thoughtfully, down the worn stairs and out into the painfully brilliant
sunlight of the bright New England spring. Crossing the green terrace,
bordered with great clumps of iris and peonies and a few late tulips, he
made his way to the stable-yard, where Higgins had left the red mare in
charge of a Polish boy who did odd tasks about the farm. The mare, as
beautiful and delicate as a fine steel spring, stood nervously pawing the
gravel and tossing her handsome head. The boy, a great lout with a shock of
yellow hair, stood far away from her holding the reins at arm’s length.
At the sight of the two the old man laughed and said, “You mustn’t let
her know you’re afraid of her, Ignaz.”
The boy gave up the reins and retired to a little distance, still watching
the mare resentfully. “Well, she tried to bite me!” he said sullenly.
Quickly, with a youthful agility, John Pentland swung himself to her
back ... quickly enough to keep her from sidling away from him. There was
a short, fierce struggle between the rider and the horse, and in a shower of
stones they sped away down the lane that led across the meadows, past the
thicket of black pines and the abandoned gravel-pit, toward the house of
Mrs. Soames.
CHAPTER IV
In the solid corner of the world which surrounded Durham, Aunt Cassie
played the rôle of an unofficial courier who passed from house to house,
from piazza to piazza, collecting and passing on the latest bits of news.
When one saw a low cloud of dust moving across the brilliant New England
sky above the hedges and stone walls of the countryside, one could be
certain that it masked the progress of Cassie Struthers on her daily round of
calls. She went always on foot, because she detested motors and was
terrified of horses; one might see her coming from a great distance, dressed
always in dingy black, tottering along very briskly (for a woman of her age
and well-advertised infirmities). One came to expect her arrival at a certain
hour, for she was, unless there arose in her path some calamity or piece of
news of unusual interest, a punctual woman whose life was as carefully
ordered as the vast house in which she lived with the queer Aunt Bella.
It was a great box of a dwelling built by the late Mr. Struthers in the days
of cupolas and gazebos on land given him by Aunt Cassie’s grandfather on
the day of her wedding. Inside it was furnished with a great profusion of
plush tassels and antimacassars, all kept with the neatness and rigidity of a
museum. There were never any cigar ashes on the floor, nor any dust in the
corners, for Aunt Cassie followed her servants about with the eye of a fussy
old sergeant inspecting his barracks. Poor Miss Peavey, who grew more and
more dowdy and careless as old age began to settle over her, led a life of
constant peril, and was forced to build a little house near the stables to
house her Pomeranians and her Siamese cats. For Aunt Cassie could not
abide the thought of “the animals dirtying up the house.” Even the “retiring
room” of the late Mr. Struthers had been converted since his death into a
museum, spotless and purified of tobacco and whisky, where his chair sat
before his desk, turned away from it a little, as if his spirit were still seated
there. On the desk lay his pipe (as he had left it) and the neat piles of paper
(carefully dusted each day but otherwise undisturbed) which he had put
there with his own hand on the morning they found him seated on the chair,
his head fallen back a little, as if asleep. And in the center of the desk lay
two handsomely bound volumes—“Cornices of Old Boston Houses” and
“Walks and Talks in New England Churchyards”—which he had written in
these last sad years when his life seemed slowly to fade from him ... the
years in which Aunt Cassie seemed rapidly to recover the wiry strength and
health for which she had been famous as a girl.
The house, people said, had been built by Mr. Struthers in the
expectation of a large family, but it had remained great and silent of
children’s voices as a tomb since the day it was finished, for Aunt Cassie
had never been strong until it was too late for her to bear him heirs.
Sabine Callendar had a whole set of theories about the house and about
the married life of Aunt Cassie, but they were theories which she kept, in
her way, entirely to herself, waiting and watching until she was certain of
them. There was a hatred between the two women that was implacable and
difficult to define, an emotion almost of savagery which concealed itself
beneath polite phrases and casual observations of an acid character. They
encountered each other more frequently than Aunt Cassie would have
wished, for Sabine, upon her return to Durham, took up Aunt Cassie’s habit
of going from house to house on foot in search of news and entertainment.
They met in drawing-rooms, on piazzas, and sometimes in the very dusty
lanes, greeting each other with smiles and vicious looks. They had become
rather like two hostile cats watching each other for days at a time, stealthily.
Sabine, Aunt Cassie confided in Olivia, made her nervous.
Still, it was Aunt Cassie who had been the first caller at Brook Cottage
after the arrival of Sabine. The younger woman had seen her approach,
enveloped in a faint cloud of dust, from the windows of Brook Cottage, and
the sight filled her with an inexpressible delight. The spare old lady had
come along so briskly, almost with impatience, filled with delight (Sabine
believed) at having an excuse now to trespass on O’Hara’s land and see
what he had done to the old cottage. And Sabine believed, too, that she
came to discover what life had done to “dear Mr. Struthers’ niece, Sabine
Callendar.” She came as the Official Welcomer of the Community, with
hope in her heart that she would find Sabine a returned prodigal, a wrecked
woman, ravaged by time and experience, who for twenty years had ignored
them all and now returned, a broken and humbled creature, hungry for
kindness.
The sight set fire to a whole train of memories in Sabine ... memories
which penetrated deep into her childhood when with her father she had
lived in the old house that once stood where O’Hara’s new one raised its
bright chimneys; memories of days when she had run off by herself to play
in the tangled orchard grass among the bleeding-hearts and irises that
surrounded this same Brook Cottage where she stood watching the
approach of Aunt Cassie. Only, in those days Brook Cottage had been a ruin
of a place, with empty windows and sagging doors, ghostly and half-hidden
by a shaggy tangle of lilacs and syringas, and now it stood glistening with
new paint, the lilacs all neatly clipped and pruned.
There was something in the sight of the old woman’s nervous, active
figure that struck deep down into a past which Sabine, with the passing of
years, had almost succeeded in forgetting; and now it all came back again,
sharply and with a kind of stabbing pain, so that she had a sudden odd
feeling of having become a little girl again ... plain, red-haired, freckled and
timid, who stood in terror of Aunt Cassie and was always being pulled here
and there by a thousand aunts and uncles and cousins because she would not
be turned into their idea of what a nice little girl ought to be. It was as if the
whole past were concentrated in the black figure of the old lady who had
been the ring-leader, the viceroy, of all a far-flung tribe, an old woman who
had been old even twenty years earlier, lying always on a sofa under a
shawl, issuing her edicts, pouring out her ample sympathies, her bitter
criticisms. And here she was, approaching briskly, as if the death of Mr.
Struthers had somehow released her from bonds which had chafed for too
long.
Watching her, one incident after another flashed through the quick, hard
brain of Sabine, all recreated with a swift, astounding clarity—the day when
she had run off to escape into the world and been found by old John
Pentland hiding in the thicket of white birches happily eating blueberries.
(She could see his countenance now, stern with its disapproval of such wild
behavior, but softening, too, at the sight of the grubby, freckled plain face
stained with blueberry juice.) And the return of the captive, when she was
surrounded by aunts who dressed her in a clean frock and forced her to sit
in the funereal spare bedroom with a New Testament on her knees until she
“felt that she could come out and behave like a nice, well-brought-up little
girl.” She could see the aunts pulling and fussing at her and saying, “What a
shame she didn’t take after her mother in looks!” and, “She’ll have a hard
time with such plain, straight red hair.”
And there was, too, the memory of that day when Anson Pentland, a
timid, spiritless little Lord Fauntleroy of a boy, fell into the river and would
have been drowned save for his cousin Sabine, who dragged him out,
screaming and drenched, only to receive for herself all the scolding for
having led him into mischief. And the times when she had been punished
for having asked frank and simple questions which she ought not to have
asked.
It was difficult to remember any happiness until the day when her father
died and she was sent to New York, a girl of twenty, knowing very little of
anything and nothing whatever of such things as love and marriage, to live
with an uncle in a tall narrow house on Murray Hill. It was on that day (she
saw it now with a devastating clarity as she stood watching the approach of
Aunt Cassie) that her life had really begun. Until then her existence had
been only a confused and tormented affair in which there was very little
happiness. It was only later that reality had come to her, painfully, even
tragically, in a whole procession of events which had made her slowly into
this hard, worldly, cynical woman who found herself, without quite
knowing why, back in a world she hated, standing at the window of Brook
Cottage, a woman tormented by an immense and acutely living curiosity
about people and the strange tangles which their lives sometimes assumed.
She had been standing by the window thinking back into the past with
such a fierce intensity that she quite forgot the approach of Aunt Cassie and
started suddenly at the sound of the curious, familiar thin voice, amazingly
unchanged, calling from the hallway, “Sabine! Sabine dear! It’s your Aunt
Cassie! Where are you?” as if she had never left Durham at all, as if nothing
had changed in twenty years.
At sight of her, the old lady came forward with little fluttering cries to
fling her arms about her late husband’s niece. Her manner was that of a
shepherd receiving a lost sheep, a manner filled with forgiveness and pity
and condescension. The tears welled easily into her eyes and streamed
down her face.
Sabine permitted herself, frigidly, to be embraced, and said, “But you
don’t look a day older, Aunt Cassie. You look stronger than ever.” It was a
remark which somehow set the whole tone of the relationship between
them, a remark which, though it sounded sympathetic and even
complimentary, was a harsh thing to say to a woman who had cherished all
her life the tradition of invalidism. It was harsh, too, because it was true.

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Language Disorders: A Functional

Approach to Assessment and

Children’s Speech: An Evidence-Based Approach to

Language Intervention Strategies in Aphasia and Related

Functional Somatic Symptoms in Children and

Functional Assessment and Program Development for

Children’s Speech: An Evidence Based Approach to

Intervention Strategies to Follow Informal Reading

Functional Assessment and Program Development 3rd

Communication Sciences and Disorders: A Clinical

Semantic Categories and Relational Words 300

12 Classroom Functional Intervention 327

13 Literacy Impairments: Language in a Visual Mode 361

B Language Analysis Methods 403

C Selected English Morphological Prefixes and Suffixes 411

D Indirect Elicitation Techniques 413

E Intervention Activities and Language Targets 415

F Use of Children’s Literature in Preschool Classrooms 419

• Language Development, An Introduction

The American Speech-Language-Hearing Association, the professional organization for speech-

A LANGUAGE DISORDER is impaired comprehension and/or use of spoken, written and/or

Traditional and Functional Models

Which one sounds better . . . or. . . . ?

Table 1.1 Comparison of Traditional and Functional Intervention Models

Traditional Model Functional Model

Role of Pragmatics in Intervention

or inappropriate to the stimulus-reinforcement situation. Echolalia and unusual language patterns

Dimensions of Communication Context

Pragmatics is one of five equal and Pragmatics is the overall

Figure 1.1 Relationship of the aspects of language.

Role of Generalization in Intervention

Generalization is the interaction of the individual, the newly trained behavior or

Figure 1.2 Generalization schematic.

Variables That Affect Generalization

Table 1.2 Variables That Affect Generalization of Language Training

Content generalization Training targets

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• Language Development, An Introduction